


Locker Room

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon, Intrepid (Odddreamsofdoom)



Series: Holding [28]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 04:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19418917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odddreamsofdoom/pseuds/Intrepid
Summary: Patrice gives him one of those beautiful, angelic smiles in return and that just makes him more confused. Brad tries to put it in the back of his mind and concentrate on his job, but it’s difficult. He’s pretty sure his boyfriend is planning something and that could mean good things or *really* good things, so either way he’s also excited even though he’s not sure what he’s excited for exactly.





	Locker Room

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST OF ALL IN CASE THE TAGS DIDN'T MAKE THIS CLEAR THIS IS STRAIGHT-UP PORN.
> 
> Second of all none of this would've been possible without the lovely and creative Intrepid, who was so helpful that a co-writer credit was in order :)
> 
> Third of all the "mild kink" mentioned in the tags is a very harmless jockstrap kink, it's barely even a thing though.
> 
> Enjoy.

“After practice, stall before you start taking off your gear,” Patrice murmurs in his ear when they’re hanging out by the sideboards.

“Okay,” Brad agrees. He’s immediately confused, but that’s not really important. There’s going to be some reason that he’ll find out later. He trusts his boyfriend.

Patrice gives him one of those beautiful, angelic smiles in return and that just makes him more confused. Brad tries to put it in the back of his mind and concentrate on his job, but it’s difficult. He’s pretty sure his boyfriend is planning something and that could mean good things or _really_ good things, so either way he’s also excited even though he’s not sure what he’s excited for exactly. It almost makes him not care that he can’t take off his sweaty gear immediately like he’s going to want to do.

And the moment comes. Brad sits in his stall, repeatedly drying his head and neck with the same towel while everyone else is shucking their pads. He’s only tossed his helmet and gloves, because he thinks those probably don’t count and besides he needs to keep his hands busy while he waits. He still doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s waiting for, exactly, but Patrice seems to be paying attention, so that boosts his usually weak self control.

After fifteen or twenty minutes, it’s just the two of them left in the locker room. Brad’s still in full equipment while his boyfriend is only in compression gear and socks. Patrice is smiling at him again and comes over, then kneels. He starts untying Brad’s skates.

“You don’t have to do that,” Brad points out, surprised.

“No, I want to. Just be patient for me, _ange._ You’ll understand soon.”

“Okay…?”

“You will,” Patrice promises, briefly kissing his right knee pad before getting back to his skate laces.

Brad sits quietly - yeah, he can do it, he just doesn’t like to - and watches. His right skate is slid off his foot, then his left, and the sock tape is unwound from his calves. Patrice reaches under the legs of his pants and unfastens the tops of his socks next, pulling them from him and then undoing his knee-shin armor. Brad has no idea why but he’s starting to breathe a little hard, he’s getting sweaty again, even though he’s holding as still as possible. There’s literally no fucking reason for him to be getting turned on by this… except that this is Patrice, his insanely gorgeous boyfriend, very slowly and deliberately undressing him. Which is fucking hot. Actually like half of everything Patrice does is fucking hot, even things that just shouldn’t be.

“Pat,” he grins, “you’re not going to fuck me right here in the locker room, are you?”

“What gave you that idea?” Patrice smiles, pausing to rest the side of his head on Brad’s thigh and look up at him for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about it since we got here, watching you get into all your stuff… and I thought about it during last practice, too… and the one before that.”

“Damn. Okay. Uh. Keep going then, I guess. I won’t stop you.”

“I’m going to make you insane.”

“In a good way?”

“Of course.”

Patrice resumes the slow process, standing back up so that Brad’s practice jersey can be pulled from his shoulders. His elbow pads are next, dropped carelessly in the pile of his other stuff on the floor. Before his chest-shoulder pads get taken off, Patrice rummages through Brad’s gear bag for the bottle of lube they stashed there for away games and sets it on the bench so that it’s handy for what will come shortly. His upper body armor is unstrapped and pulled free, and Brad’s expecting his pants to be next, but they’re not - his boyfriend peels his compression shirt from his skin and lightly rubs him with a towel to get rid of the sweat there. It seems kind of pointless, since he’s just getting turned on and keeps sweating anyway.

“No, let me,” Patrice reminds him when he reaches for the ties on his pants.

“You’re taking forever,” Brad complains.

“Patience, _ange_ … are you going to let me do this? I want to make you feel good.”

Brad nods, helpless. He grabs the sides of his stall so that he can keep his hands out of the way from now on. “Yeah. Yeah. I can be good. Keep going.”

Instead of Brad’s remaining body armor, Patrice’s long-sleeved compression shirt is removed. This means that when Patrice is undoing the top of his pants, Brad can see all the tiny flexings and movements in his boyfriend’s forearms and wrists. Somehow watching that is getting him mostly hard by itself, which means that his cup is literally the worst fucking thing ever because he’s just trapped in it and it kind of hurts. He fidgets a little, trying to relieve the pressure, but nothing helps. Patrice finally has him stand, sliding off his pants and then the rest of his compression gear. Interestingly, Patrice doesn’t take his jockstrap off him, just removes his cup. Which is a really fucking good thing, because being trapped under stretchy cloth is way less uncomfortable than barely-flexible plastic and silicone.

“You can sit and watch for a second, _ange._ But don’t touch yourself, okay?”

“Sure.” Brad sits. He’s still not really sure why he has to keep wearing his jockstrap.

Patrice finishes stripping, almost as slowly as he undressed Brad, leaving his stuff on the same pile. It doesn’t matter that much if their spandex gets mixed up, it all goes into the same washing machine once they get home. Brad’s not thinking about that, though, because his entire attention is on Patrice’s massive hard-on. He thinks at first that he’s going to blow Patrice, seeing how he’s guided to kneel on the floor. Then his boyfriend turns him around and has him rest forward with his elbows on the bench. Okay. So they’re skipping that step this time. It’s kind of too bad, he loves sucking his boyfriend off, but it’s also totally fine because he’s getting really twitchy. He needs something to happen thirty seconds ago.

And something does happen - he startles a little at the cool slickness of the lube, and for some reason there are no fingers actually going _in_ like he wants. Just circling a little first, teasing, as if Patrice didn’t fuck him as recently as the night before last and they need to be gradual. Brad doesn’t want gradual and he never has, but that’s what he’s getting for some reason, and it’s driving him crazy.

“C’mon, Pat, what’re you waiting for?” he asks, hopefully not sounding too pathetic.

“Sshhh,” is the answer, then a kiss on his back. “You’re doing fine.”

Brad drops his face onto his forearms and still can’t get over the fact that Patrice is apparently going to make him keep wearing his fucking jockstrap for this. In a year and a half, how did he not know until now that this is apparently a kink that his boyfriend has? He doesn’t really mind that much as long as he gets off. Thinking of that, Brad moves one arm so he can try adjusting himself into a more comfortable arrangement, but his wrist is gently caught and redirected back to its original spot. Maybe that was the right thing to do, though, because five seconds later there’s a finger. He breathes out and closes his eyes. It’s not enough, just one finger hasn’t been enough in a long time, but having something at all feels so much better, like pressure getting released. The finger slides back out again and then returns with more lube, even though he could almost be fine just like this.

Then Patrice starts lightly teasing his prostate, and after a few seconds he’s whimpering.

Actually this is kind of a challenge for Brad. The locker room is echoey and sound travels weirdly in the hall outside, so even though they’re technically alone right now there’s probably people floating around here and there that might hear. Which means he’s going to have to stay quiet. That’s a tall order even when he’s not getting plowed.

“People will hear,” he gasps out as Patrice moves a little more deliberately.

“Well then you’ll have to try keeping your noise down, won’t you?” his boyfriend chuckles. “I can cover your mouth with my hand if you want.”

“Probably a… oh, fuck… prob’ly a good idea,” he agrees.

Dammit, why is the finger leaving again - okay, that’s the lube getting uncapped. It doesn’t take that long, at least, until the end of Patrice’s cock is nudging into him, and like always today it’s too fucking slow. Brad wants to feel it jamming in, more frantic, really anything faster than this. He likes those times every so often, sometimes after a really bad game, where Patrice just fucking loses it and pounds him like there’s no tomorrow. That’s apparently not what he’s getting today. It’s frustrating, but he’s insanely turned on by this all the same and he’s still going to be fucked. He’ll still get off, Patrice always makes sure he does.

Finally it’s all the way in, and Patrice drapes over his back while reaching to run a palm across his chest and stomach. Brad’s junk is still trapped, he’s about to beg Patrice to touch him there. Then his boyfriend starts to move, almost completely back out before stuffing back into him again. He’s this close to shouting but a hand covers his mouth before he can. Fuck, Brad needs more, more friction and more skin contact and more of Patrice in general. He also really, really has to touch his own dick, but when he tries to move he’s stopped again. Brad growls in his throat, mostly because he can’t help it. Also because it kind of seems like Patrice is now deliberately not hitting his prostate. That’s kind of weird and unusual. It still feels good but he can’t possibly get off like this.

The hand comes off his face Patrice leans up again, probably to have better leverage for fucking him. Fingers grab the waistband of his jockstrap while the other palm lightly rubs circles on his back, which is still kind of nice. He likes Patrice touching him. He just wishes one of those hands was jerking him off instead.

“Pat why won’t you touch me?”

“I am touching you, _ange._ ”

“No… like… I can’t come like this, you won’t let me.”

“I know. Don’t worry, you will.”

“But-”

“Hey, relax,” Patrice whispers, still rubbing his skin. “I want you to just stay like this and feel what I’m doing… I’ll still make you come. Just probably not as soon as you think.”

Brad does his best, he tries to calm down a little but it’s not easy at all. It feels like all his nerves woke up in the last couple minutes and there’s still an occasional graze against his prostate, sending little jolts into his dick. Which by now is starting to throb a little, stuck in one spot by elastic fabric and not able to rub against anything.

“Please will you just fucking touch me?” he begs around his own panting breaths.

“Not yet,” Patrice breathes. “Soon. Have to wait.”

His boyfriend is losing the ability to use complete sentences, which means Brad’s in very real danger of not getting off this time unless he does it himself. Except when he tries to do that Patrice stops him. But Patrice is about to come. He feels frustrated and trapped, which normally would be a complete mood killer, but he’s still 100% hard with an achy, needy throb. His dick is practically yelling at him, why won’t he fucking touch it already, it’ll feel so good by now so he should really just go for it - and Patrice stops him for probably the sixth time. It doesn’t help that Patrice isn’t moving as gracefully as he was a couple minutes ago, he’s starting to stutter and curl down over Brad’s back again. Then his boyfriend is mostly succeeding at swallowing down a long moan, and there’s a different wet than the lube, all heat and sticky-slippery deep in him. Brad can’t take this, he needs to come too. And somehow Patrice is still able to grab his wrist and hold it there on the bench, even shuddering from the last weak aftershock of pleasure. That shouldn’t even be allowed.

Brad can’t stop himself from whimpering a tiny bit at the emptiness that follows, and why is Patrice not sleepy and weak like every other man on the planet after they get off? At least he’s doing a very good job pretending not to be those things, because he makes Brad stand up and then holds out Brad’s underwear and jeans.

“Oh come on,” he whines, doing his best puppy eyes at his boyfriend.

“No, we’re going home first, and we have to get dressed to do that.” How is Patrice smiling. _Why is Patrice smiling at this!_ “Hey, I told you I’d make you go insane. That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Brad groans but starts pulling on his boxer briefs no matter how annoying it is. Wearing underwear over a fucking jockstrap is beyond stupid; the only plus side is that it’ll be really hard for any random person on the way to the parking lot to tell that he’s got a pounding, leaking hard-on even under a pair of tight jeans. Literally the only benefit to this dumbass situation. He just wants to get off. To make that happen he’ll apparently have to put up with this first. What the fuck. Patrice doesn’t usually torture him like this.

Brad drags on his jeans and socks as fast as he can, stuffing his feet into his shoes without tying them and yanking on his shirt. He can fix the laces in the car. He tosses all their gear into their bags before throwing on his hat and sweatshirt; meanwhile, Patrice is taking his sweet fucking time getting dressed again, because of course he is. Of fucking course he is. He’s dragging out everything today.

Brad squirms a little standing there - some of the lube is trickling out, so great, now aside from the fucking jockstrap pinning his dick his underwear will be sticking to his ass the whole ride home in the car. But he also considers: with traffic, it’d be pretty easy to take twenty five minutes or so getting back from the practice rink, which means Patrice will be good to go again. Was this his plan all along? Be infuriating and then end up fucking Brad twice in one afternoon? Because… that kind of makes this more tolerable. A little. He still really needs to come. But if it means he gets to have Patrice fucking him again then he can try to hang on for a few more minutes. Hopefully. Maybe. This is so fucking hard even to think about.

“You’re going to trip on your shoe laces,” Patrice informs him as they’re finally, _finally_ leaving the locker room.

“I don’t care, we’re going,” Brad answers, probably louder than he should. Someone’s office may have caught that noise. But he doesn’t care about that right now, either. They need to get home. His dick has switched off most of his brain.

It’s awkward walking, not just because of his sticky boxer briefs and raging hard-on but also from his stupid gear bag banging against him with every step. And Patrice is several steps behind, not hurrying. Brad would grab his arm and drag him along but that would mean walking back from his current direction, and he can’t have that, he’s getting too close to the car. The closer he gets to the car the sooner he goes home and gets off. He shoves his gear bag in… somewhere. He has no fucking attention span anymore and doesn’t even know if it’s the back seat or the trunk, because now he’s throwing himself into the front passenger side and slamming the door.

Brad sinks down in the seat, knees falling open so he can squeeze his dick through his jeans and take some of the pressure off. There’s no stopping the groan that escapes, but it’s in relief. Fuck he needs that, a tiny corner of his brain knows he should wait for his boyfriend but it’s so good to finally have the right kind of pressure there. Brad gets to enjoy this for about ten seconds before Patrice is also in the car, pulling his hand away.

“Seatbelt… you should probably tie your shoes now, too.”

“Let’s just go home,” Brad demands, even while obediently clicking the fucking seatbelt into place.

Yup. His underwear is definitely sticking to him. Brad doesn’t even give a shit about that anymore. There’s something really, stupidly satisfying knowing that Patrice’s come is starting to leak out even while he’s mentally psyched up for his boyfriend to pound him when they get back to their apartment. Plus between that and the lube that’s still there, Patrice won’t have an excuse to stall anymore once they get there because he’s more than ready as it is.

Seriously this is the longest fucking car ride ever. Patrice’s hand squeezes his left leg pretty much the whole time, part reassurance that he’ll get it good once they’re home but part reminder that he needs to keep his hands above his damn belt. In response, Brad’s right knee is jiggling up and down impatiently and he can’t make it stop even if that was on his mind right now. He’s about to die of old age by the time they get to their building. This time, Brad doesn’t wait around. Their gear bags are just left in the car while he hauls Patrice up the stairs, ignoring the stickiness starting to make its way down the insides of his thighs and behind his balls. It’s amazing he stands still long enough for the door to be unlocked instead of just trying to kick the fucking thing in.

Shoes get kicked off, shirt and sweatshirt tossed aside. Brad strips on his way to their room and flings himself face-down on the bed, this time without the damn jockstrap because he’s not putting up with that shit anymore. Just having his junk not held down is an amazing, liberating sensation, feeling the cool softness of the blanket against his dick instead. He only has about twenty seconds of patience left before he reaches down and goes for it, he’s barely hanging on waiting for Patrice at this point. Brad wants to be fucked again but if Patrice takes too long he has a whole other hand with perfectly good fingers if it comes to that.

It doesn’t come to that. His boyfriend appears.

Patrice’s clothes are tossed into a pile somewhere and then Brad’s pressed heavily into the mattress, moaning loudly into the bedding as that nice thick cock inserts itself into him again. Things are as they should be. At first it’s still kind of frustrating, but somehow the haze of lust clears enough for him to realize that he’s primed to come in fifteen seconds or less as soon as Patrice touches him, and Patrice should really get to come, too, so there’s a small time allowance for his boyfriend to get to that point. This time, it’s not drawn out. Brad cries out shamelessly every time that Patrice slams into him, directly hitting his prostate four times out of five. Then his perfect boyfriend’s perfect hand is jerking him off perfectly, sliding his foreskin against that sensitive spot under the head of his dick at exactly the right speed.

Brad’s pretty sure he screams, but he can’t actually hear very well because this might be the hardest he’s ever came. Blinding, explosion, a hundred other big noisy words that don’t actually get very close to describing how it feels. It kind of reminds him of when he was a kid, discovering that his dick was his best friend and the first time he ever got himself off, that amazing new sensation. He thinks this comes pretty close to that initial euphoria, the first time he came and how incredible it felt. This is pretty incredible. Suffering a hard-on for over half an hour and then getting absolutely slammed by his boyfriend.

It feels like ten minutes before he can see, move, or even think again, but really it’s probably like a minute and a half tops. He tries to move and Patrice rolls to the other side of the bed, which means Brad can get on his side and see the gross, sticky mess that he’s wearing - lube all over his ass and the backs of his legs, two loads dribbling out of him with a third smeared across the blanket and his stomach. Plus he never showered after practice before he was getting plowed. So he should really go do that, probably. Except his legs don’t work. They won’t work again for a few minutes.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Patrice mumbles from somewhere nearby. “We need to get cleaned up first…”

“I can’t get up,” Brad protests. He’s maybe whining a little, because he’s suddenly realizing how fucking exhausted it makes him to do a full hockey practice and then get fucked twice in thirty five minutes. “You have to carry me.”

“Okay, then I will.”

Brad closes his eyes and relaxes because he’s pretty sure his boyfriend is kidding. And after a year and a half in a relationship, plus however many years they were friends before that, he really should’ve learned better by now. Because he’s really surprised when there are arms scooping him up from the bed, and then Patrice is stumbling into the bathroom with him. At least they have one of those bath/shower setups; Brad just gets put in the tub so Patrice can rummage around for towels or whatever before turning on the water. He watches, knowing he’s got a really dumb grin on his face as he does but not caring. Because trembling and sweaty and droopy-eyed, his boyfriend is still gorgeous while fumbling around the bathroom naked.

“You look really sore,” Patrice comments, getting a new bar of soap out of the box and looking to see how much shampoo is in the bottle.

“You can see that I’m sore?” Brad giggles. “Yeah, kinda… mostly my legs…”

“That makes sense. You don’t have to do anything, _ange._ I’ll take good care of you.”

“Okay. Cool.” Brad leans his head back against the tiled wall and sighs as his eyes close. “You know you’re still pretty even when you should look gross?”

“I don’t think that’s true, but thank you.”

Patrice seems to be satisfied, finally getting under the water. Then Brad is pulled to his feet and Patrice takes his weight, wrapping around from behind and gently scrubbing the new bar of soap all across his chest and belly. Shower gel is all well and good, but there’s something really refreshing about feeling a bar of soap pressing into his skin. Brad’s so relaxed and tired that he can’t even really stand right now, but now he goes almost completely limp in Patrice’s arms. After a couple minutes of lathering come out of his body hair, they realize without words that it’s probably a good idea for Brad to go back to sitting on the floor of the tub, but he gets to stay in the cocoon of his boyfriend’s strong grasp.

At one point he tries to get the soap so he can do it himself, but Patrice won’t let him. “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about any of this. Let me take care of you.”

So Brad lets him. He can’t help making small noises in his throat when Patrice cleans all the lube and come out of him, still overly sensitive in there. What’s arguably worse is his dick getting washed, which actually gets him to whimper. He sinks back against Patrice’s chest, and it’s a little surprising but also really nice that there’s extra attention and soaping on his knees, which took a little punishment in the locker room. Then he’s leaned forward and his back gets done, and it feels amazing. The best part is having his hair washed, feeling his boyfriend’s fingertips massaging his scalp to foam up the shampoo. He’s so ready for a nap by now that he could probably fall asleep right under the shower spray if he wasn’t trying really hard to not do that.

Afterwards, Patrice seems a lot less interested in getting himself clean, just going through what he needs to before turning off the water. Brad sits on the edge of the tub and holds still, letting himself be rubbed dry; like with the shower a couple minutes ago, Patrice just kind of does the bare minimum with his own towel before tending Brad again. The blanket gets put in the wash and a clean one is brought out, they both throw on sweats or pajama bottoms, and then they’re finally cuddling up for a nap. Brad falls asleep with his head on Patrice’s chest, listening to the heartbeat there, and one of Patrice’s hands buried in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally write porn, so please be forgiving. Comments are always welcome though.


End file.
